


Looking Too Closely

by tonightless



Series: The Finite Anthology: 100 Prompts ∞ [Merlin/Arthur] [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dating, Feelings, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Merlin is oblivious, Modern Era, Pining, Restaurants, waiter arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonightless/pseuds/tonightless
Summary: And in a rare, blessed lapse of silence, Merlin clears his throat. “That’s not my problem.” His problem is that the way that Arthur is smirking at him is getting him hot under the collar. Although there's also the fact that—“The men I date always fall into three categories: uninterested, arseholes, or fuckboys.”
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The Finite Anthology: 100 Prompts ∞ [Merlin/Arthur] [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/57956
Comments: 23
Kudos: 328





	Looking Too Closely

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt #61: Sigh.
> 
> My first fic to make it out of the WIP graveyard in 3 years! *throws confetti*

**ೋ**

╔════════════════════╗

  
 _“ Foolish envy, misplaced anger; _  
_we're no strangers to pride.  
I've been down with all your devils;  _  
_let them stay for a while."_

—Alex Vargas, 7 Sins  
  
  
╚════════════════════╝

****

**1.**

“I don’t mean to point out the obvious,” Arthur says, “but this doesn’t seem to be going well.”

Merlin stares glumly at the empty seat opposite him while Arthur clears the plates. “This is his third toilet break.”

Conspiratorially, Arthur leans in and whispers: “Maybe he’s sending an SOS in the bathroom,” which shouldn’t do things to Merlin’s insides, but Arthur has a knack for invading Merlin’s personal space just-so when he could get away with it.

“Weak bladder’s my guess.”

“Or he’s wanking in one of the stalls,” Arthur replies, only to swan away and leave Merlin choking on his wine. When he reappears with dessert menus, Arthur goes breezily on as though Merlin weren’t fighting for air.

“Anyway, I meant your dating life overall. I’ve never seen you come here with the same man twice.” He pulls a face. “Except Perceval.”

“What was wrong with Perceval?”

“What _wasn’t_ wrong with Perceval, Merlin?”

“He was nice!”

“ _Nice_ ,” Arthur scoffs. “Who wants nice? Give me someone smart and funny, with a nice arse—”

“ _Nice_ arse?”

“A fantastic arse, then. Adventurous, that’s a plus. Though dorky, that’s probably your type. Like Newt Scamander. No, a male Amy Santiago. There’d be Scrabble tournaments. Sudoku in bed while they s—”

“ _Don’t_ finish that sentence.”

Despite Merlin’s glare Arthur just shrugs.

“Prude.”

“We’re in a restaurant. I’m trying not to _traumatise_ the other patrons with your visions of Mr. Right and their sexual talents.”

“Patrons,” Arthur scoffs. “Well, I’m still envisioning some lame, over-competitive, kinky Scrabble nerd.” Then his eyes go round and Merlin suddenly feels resigned. It's not hard to picture the lightbulb glowing over Arthur's head when he rushes on: “ _Or_ , someone who’ll watch true crime shows with you and make out with you while—”

“You’re disturbed.”

“And you’re deluded. How about a mysterious stranger you meet at the bar and then fuck because he kind of looks like Sebastian Stan in that GQ shoot—”

“Shut _up_ —”

“I wouldn’t judge.”

“So?”

And in a rare, blessed lapse of silence, Merlin clears his throat. “That’s not my problem.”

His problem is that the way that Arthur is smirking at him is getting him hot under the collar. Although there's also the fact that—

“The men I date always fall into three categories: uninterested, arseholes, or fuckboys.”

“How awfully clear cut.” Arthur isn't even pretending to do his actual sodding job, punctuating each suggestion with a wave, jab, or swipe of his pen. “No uninterested arseholes? Arsehole fuckboys? Fuckboys are always arseholes, surely. And only ever temporarily interested.”

“My system’s not up for debate,” Merlin says grandly, which earns him a withering look from Arthur, but at least Merlin doesn't have to worry about Arthur's job security because the pen gesticulating comes to a sudden stop on his notepad.

“So Gilli is uninterested.”

“Precisely.”

“And Percival—? _Shit_.”

Suddenly a dessert menu is thrust in Merlin’s face and Arthur hisses “incoming!” right into his ear, only to snatch the menu back.

“No, fuck that. You’re going to end this right now.”

“What?”

“ _Mer_ lin,” and Arthur’s growl definitely doesn't make something flutter in his stomach, “that gangly, creepily-young-looking man-child is firmly in the uninterested camp – though he must be blind, you do have a certain, utterly inexplicable _je ne sais quoi_ about you – and eating tiramisu in awkward silence does not a great date make.”

“Only you could turn a compliment into an insult, you fucking _dick_ —”

“I’ve been here the _whole date_.” Arthur’s eyes are wide and despairing and very, very blue, and then Gilli was in earshot and Arthur asks “can I get you two some dessert?” so brightly that Gilli almost trips over. Merlin, of course, glares.

Arthur’s smile only widens, and Merlin decides then and there that Arthur couldn’t be victorious.

“Oh.” Gilli sits down but didn’t settle. “Well, uh. That sounds nice.”

Then the silence stretches onwards. Arthur’s gaze drills into Merlin's cheek and, fuck it, into his resolve, and by splaying his napkin on the table Merlin concedes defeat. Two against one. Tossers, both of them: one insufferable, one dull as a brick.

“Uh, well, I guess we should wrap up here.”

Gilli looks relieved. It stings, but Merlin can't blame him.

Arthur removes the last of the glasses. When he returns with the bill, Merlin mutters just loud enough for him to hear: “There is nothing wrong with Scrabble, you pillock,” and Arthur bites back a laugh.

**2.**

They haven’t even ordered their mains and over Mordred’s shoulder Merlin sees Arthur, laden with glasses and crockery, shaking his head and mouthing _no_ repeatedly. Apparently it’s obvious from the other side of the restaurant that their date is a disaster, declared so by handsome, arsey Arthur, no less. In all his life, Merlin has never willed himself to disappear with such desperation. Including the time Gwen caught him _in flagrante delicto_ in a cloakroom at her birthday party.

“So, what do you do?”

“Oh.” Merlin pastes a quick smile on his face despite Mordred’s piercing stare. “I’m a law student.”

Mordred just grunts. So far he’s mainly talked about himself. At length, while Merlin bobs his head up and down and glugs wine like Bridget Jones’s spirit has possessed his body.

Mordred doesn’t leave the table at all, so there’s no chance for Arthur to offer his unwanted opinion, though naturally, that doesn’t stop Arthur from trying. Sometime in the middle of Mordred’s story about his audition for Big Brother, Arthur - hidden from diners’ view in the gangway between kitchen and restaurant - catches Merlin’s eye and feigns death by dragging the side of his hand across his throat.

Finally, _finally_ , Mordred leaves. Arthur swoops in immediately. “God, where do you _find_ these people? Grindr?”

“Worse.” Merlin leans back in his chair and runs his hands over his face. “They’re recommendations from friends who supposedly want the best for me but the depressing truth is that they don’t want me to die a half-virgin and therefore have no qualms giving me the lowest of the low so long as I get laid.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow.

“Oh, fuck.” Merlin’s cheeks burn red. Redder, probably. Wine _is_ his kryptonite. “God. Now you’re just going to pity me even more. Fuck. And that’s not entirely fair, they’re not all awful.”

“’S nothing to be ashamed of,” Arthur says mildly, and Merlin can’t help but imagine Arthur as a spectator at the hurdles, just waiting for Merlin to get to the finish line so he can clear up the mess. He squints up at him suspiciously. “And I don’t pity you. I’m trying to work out how the fuck you can be _half_ a virgin.”

“State secret, that,” Merlin says darkly, and at least Arthur lets it drop. Instead Arthur holds up the empty wine bottles and frowns at them as though they've disappointed him in some way. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

“Christ. Did I tell you you’re an arse? Because – you are. An arse, I mean.”

“You’ve slurred it once or twice.”

“An arse with a nice arse.”

“ _Nice_ arse?”

“I hate you.” And then because he’s drunk and Arthur should not look so shaggable when bewildered, Merlin adds petulantly: “Fine, it’s sodding fantastic. I’m in love with your arse, but I hate you nonetheless. Really.”

Arthur just rolls his eyes and starts to clear the plates. Merlin watches the deft movements of Arthur’s hands, the soft ripples of sinew in his forearms, and when Arthur dives into the low hum of voices, the chimes of glass and porcelain, Merlin keeps looking.

He never gets to watch Arthur because Arthur is constantly coming and going; when Arthur is at his table, it’s a table Merlin is sharing with someone else. Merlin studies the way the light makes Arthur’s hair glimmer bright and golden, the whorling patterns it drapes on Arthur’s body. He studies Arthur’s broad back, the narrowness of his hips, his easy grace.

Seeing Arthur, really seeing him, is sodding depressing, because he doesn't hate him at all. Not even close.

Then Merlin frowns and peers around. None of the other servers are as familiar with their diners as Arthur is with him. He hasn’t even spoken to any of them. Just then Arthur emerges from the kitchen and is summoned by a table in the corner. Merlin watches Arthur jot down their orders, a charming veneer in place.

When Arthur returns for the glasses, he asks:

“Why do you always wait on me?”

“What?”

“Every time I come here, you’re my waiter. But there’s at least – maybe four others here.”

Arthur scribbles something on his notepad that can’t possibly be anything other than a doodle. Then, “Someone has to look out for you.”

He looks up, hesitant, but bitterness is already pooling into the wine-pit in Merlin’s stomach.

“You’re a waiter. Not a knight in shining armour.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t – I don’t need your fucking help, Arthur.” Thank god his voice doesn’t break. Breaking in front of Arthur would be excruciating. He manages to make eye contact again, and takes a deep, shuddering breath when he saw how Arthur was worrying at his bottom lip and his hands had tightened around his pen. That bloody pen.

“The bill, please.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Arthur’s face morph from upset to unease—

“Get someone else to bring it.”

—to something cold.

**3.**

Merlin wouldn’t have chosen to go back to Arthur’s restaurant, but Gwaine suggested it. Not that it’s Arthur’s; it’s just where Arthur always was.

Gwaine waves as soon as Merlin slips into the restaurant, already getting to his feet. Merlin’s first thought is that his charm was magnified tenfold compared to the photos Gwen showed him during her dutiful online sleuthing – which is really saying something, because in those photos Gwaine seemed warm, easy-going, and a bit of a lark.

“You must be Merlin.” Gwaine slaps him on the shoulder in greeting. “You’re certainly a handsome man, Leon wasn’t lying.”

“Thank you. You’re easy on the eyes yourself.”

Gwaine smiles with the ease of someone used to the compliment and then pulls out Merlin’s chair for him, and it’s such a ludicrous gesture that some diners peer curiously at them – a pasty, lanky, huge-eared Merlin versus Gwaine: an actual, in-magazines model with an accent that Merlin bloody loves and buoyant, gleaming hair.

Merlin forces himself to roll his eyes. “I’m from Wales, not Genovia.”

Gwaine settles back into his seat. “Wales is close enough, eh?”, and there’s still mirth in his eyes when he raises a hand to summon the waiter. There’s a glimmer of blonde, and then—

“Can I get you any drinks?”

Arthur’s voice jolts Merlin’s barely-calmed nerves and Merlin's head snaps up from the menu. He's caught of guard – though he shouldn’t be, Arthur works Fridays, and it really is poetic justice that he’s here for yet another date, even if it is one that won’t end in vetoed tiramisu or wine-induced despair. Hopefully, anyway. But this time there’s none of the usual warmth in Arthur’s face and suddenly Merlin wishes Gwaine could see how wrong it is, how Arthur is suddenly ugly and shockingly cold.

“Merlin? Want to share a bottle?”

Both Arthur and Gwaine are watching him. “Huh? Oh, sure.”

“I’ll bring it right over.” Arthur snaps his notepad shut with them a frosty smile. Merlin blinks, and then he is gone.

“Someone’s got a rod up their arse.” Gwaine shakes his head despairingly, except there’s another grin blooming on his face and suddenly he guffaws. “Grand, eh?”

Merlin makes a noncommittal noise and straightens his knife and fork, still atop his folded napkin.

Arthur, true to his word, brings the wine, but after that they’re served by a sweet-faced waitress who Gwaine flirts with so much she won’t stop blushing. Merlin can’t bring himself to mind. If he looked like Gwaine, he’d flirt as a sport, too.

The meal passes quickly. They talk freely about travel over wine; bad sci-fi films and medieval England over the bread basket. Gwaine’s modelling gigs are the topic of the main course, and half-way through his salmon Merlin says:

“You’ve got a great arse, then,” and mentally checks that off his list despite knowing they won’t date again. Gwaine may be hotter than Sebastian Stan in that GQ shoot, have an enviable arsenal of crude jokes _and_ a moral compass that frankly turns Merlin on more than his looks, but he also has fuckboy written all over him and Merlin’s not touching that with a barge pole.

“This was fun,” Gwaine says, when the waitress has cleared away their desserts.

“It was.” Merlin smiles. “Never knew I could laugh so hard wine came out my nose.”

“I never knew someone so skinny could polish off an entire bread basket,” but before Merlin could come up with an indignant retort Gwaine leans forward, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Although princess is definitely into you.”

“Who?”

“Golden boy who got the wine.”

“He is not. I think the wine’s got to your head.”

“Merlin, my man. He is,” and Gwaine sounds so earnest Merlin can only stare. “Wine never goes to my head. And whenever I see him, he’s looking at you.”

“I don’t—”

“He’s also being a complete tosser to me.” Gwaine looks unaccountably pleased, _obviously_ , and Merlin can't help but grin. “Can’t blame him, though. You’re quite a catch.”

“So are you.”

Gwaine finishes the last of his wine and stands. His hand falls onto Merlin’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze; a kiss lands on his cheek. Gwaine’s cologne is musky and warm, his stubble a soft scratch on Merlin’s skin.

“I’ll get the bill, Merlin. Let’s be friends, yeah?”

**4.**

If he ever goes on a date with Arthur, they’ll go to the sushi place around the corner from his flat. All you can eat, cheap as chips, and far less suffocating than the _Albion_ restaurant. They seat him in the corner for a change, with a view of the street. It’s getting dark. Thunder booms in the distance and the street is a sea of bobbing umbrellas.

The sweet-faced waitress takes his order, and once he’s pretended to look at a menu he knows back to front and inside out he asks her if Arthur is here. She disappears with a soft smile, and Merlin waits. The Tube sign glows in the distance, a smear of blue-red in the downpour. The umbrellas keep on dancing.

“You summoned me?”

Merlin jumps and twists in his seat and there is Arthur. Arthur, with his golden hair and adorably crooked teeth and a bored, vacant look on his face that makes Merlin’s insides twist in shame.

“I’m sorry.” Merlin bites his lip. “I wanted to talk to you,” he hurries on, when Arthur holds his silence. Arthur simply stands and Merlin – god Merlin _hates_ the passivity, the blankness, the deadness of it all. “Properly, I mean—”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. His head tilts to the side, considering.

“—I’ve been an idiot, a – a clotpole really and this really isn’t what I wanted to say – I mean, I am all of those things, but—”

“My shift ends in an hour.”

Merlin blinks in surprise, and once again Arthur is gone.

“Wanker,” he mutters under his breath.

And then he waits again. When Arthur reappears there are two plates in his hands.

“Peace offering.” Arthur’s never been so nervous – not an obvious nervous, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that Merlin wants to smooth away, and he hovers by the table instead of just sitting.

Relief flits across Arthur’s face when Merlin finally signals his assent. He puts a plate of tiramisu opposite Merlin and sits with his own.

“Ice cream? Really?”

“It’s gelato.”

“You’re a child.”

Arthur curves his spoon just-so through one of the scoops. Merlin starts his tiramisu so that he doesn’t have to say anything, either, and they eat in silence.

“Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Arthur says eventually. “Or embarrass you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“And for the record, I really don’t pity you.”

“I know. I overreacted, I was an arse.”

“A drunk arse.”

“Yeah.”

And Merlin is suddenly conscious that he actually doesn’t know much about Arthur at all.

“What do you do?” is all Merlin can think to ask, which is stupid because Arthur has just done his shift.

“I’m a biology student.”

“Oh. Nice.”

“Merlin, you don’t have to try with me. You’ve never had to before.” That’s true, and it’s a relief to know that Arthur realises that. Then, “I’m sorry Gwaine left. You really got on.”

“I’ve got a new friend, at least.” He pauses, and then: “I’m just fucking fed up of meeting all these guys and just being... underwhelming. Even if we click they’re not interested in a relationship, it’s some crappy blowjobs and then they’re bored.”

“Perceval was that bad?”

“ _Arthur_.”

“Sorry.” Arthur doesn’t sound apologetic. “But if he’s bad at blowjobs, he really can’t have been that considerate. It’s just not that hard.”

“Why were you even protecting my honour, or whatever it was?” Merlin is mainly trying to move on from Arthur talking about blowjobs but has careened head-first into uncharted waters and now can’t stop the words tumbling out, _oh Christ_. “You’re stupidly attractive, and I bet girls love you, and you’ve seen what men think of me—”

“Well, you _are_ right about the girls.” Merlin briefly pictures himself throwing his drink at Arthur’s head. “And I have been third wheel on all your dates, but they were all blind, senseless idiots. I think it’s time I have you to myself, don’t you?”

Arthur’s eyes soften and his lips curl up, and a heartbeat later he reaches out and brushes Merlin’s cheekbone. The breath catches in Merlin’s throat, suddenly too-conscious of Arthur’s girlish eyelashes and the warmth of Arthur’s fingertips on his face.

“You’re not underwhelming, Merlin. You make me laugh, for one thing. But you’re also bloody, impossibly, maddeningly gorgeous.”

Merlin can’t help but stare.

“Fuck me.”

“Eloquent as ever.”

“Gwaine was right.”

“What?”

“He said you liked me and hated him for cock-blocking you.”

“Mm.” Arthur’s hand drifts away from Merlin’s face to cup his own jaw, elbow propped on the table, and a slow smirk spreads across his face. Really, Merlin thinks, no one had the right to be that attractive. “Well, I was just talking about blowjobs, but that seemed to fly right over your head. I’ve wanted you since you first came here with Perceval.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I thought you were some crazy serial dater who had five boyfriends at a time.” Arthur waves a hand dismissively. “A real-life John Tucker, just without the basketball body and stupid haircut—”

“Thanks?”

“—and every time I saw you, you were on a date. I’m not going to sink that low.”

Arthur leans back and starts on his last scoop of gelato. He’s loose and easy, his ankle resting on his knee, and Merlin can see the hint of neck and collarbone peeking out from under his shirt where he’s loosened his tie.

“You keep asking me why I do things for you,” Arthur says suddenly. “Why do I wait on you? Why do I talk to you? Why are you helping me?” He pauses. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so oblivious, or so bloody obtuse. To be clear: I like you, Merlin. A lot. An embarrassing amount. Also, you have an incredible arse.”

“Well, fuck me.” Merlin says again, too bewildered to grasp the double entendre until Arthur leans forward again, his tie perilously close to swimming in half-melted gelato and a glint in his eye that makes Merlin’s mouth go dry.

“Well, you know – we could always fix that half-virgin thing.”

**5.**

“Move the textbook, Merlin,” Arthur says with such intent that Merlin obeys unthinkingly, whacking it with his elbow.

“Ow! The _fuck_ ’s that?”

“Molecular biology.” Arthur pants over the _thud_ of textbook surrendering to gravity, still out of breath from the race up the stairs.

Later, when Arthur looms back into view, their breathing is still heavy. Their mouths meet, their limbs twine around one another, their hands drift across sweat-damp t-shirts, and when Merlin presses a knee between Arthur’s legs Arthur half-sighs, half-hisses into his mouth.

“You’re bossy,” Arthur rasps between kisses.

“Mm.” Merlin strokes his thumb across Arthur’s jaw. “And you're ludicrously chivalrous, taking it upon yourself to tackle my blowjob trauma _head-on_.”

"Very punny, _Mer_ lin. Think of that all by yourself?”

"I ought to thank you.”

“You're too uncouth to bother.” But the corner of Arthur’s mouth twists upwards. Merlin traces it with his fingers. "I like you anyway, despite your lack of social graces and your frankly alarming ears.”

Merlin just glowered up at him, when a thought occurred to him. “I bet a hundred bloody quid you've got Scrabble somewhere 'round here.”

"You might have crushed it with my textbook. We'll have to make do with the half-virgin conundrum."

The sofa is so small that they are still practically on top of each other when they finally lie side by side and breathe, and Arthur cards his hand absentmindedly through Merlin's hair.

“We didn’t even manage to get our clothes off,” Merlin says eventually.

Arthur turns his head to look at him, their noses almost touching, and Merlin smothers his laugh with a kiss.


End file.
